Jack doesn’t believe in curses. He doesn’t believe in luck or omens or superstitions (although, if a black cat ran across his path, it would be bad luck for that cat.) He may have a point, but given the hard, cold facts about the Melbourne Football Club, you could be forgiven for having a sneaky suspicion that they have been dealt an unlucky hand for 57 years.
In 2021 Melbourne Football Club killed it. If you thought coronavirus was the height of destructiveness, you weren’t paying attention to the lethal trio of Christian Petracca, Max Gawn and Clayton Oliver and their merry band of mischief-makers.
Before the glorious Melbourne Premiership, the commitment involved in barracking for the Demons was like living your life in perpetual cycles of riding the Ghost Train at Luna Park. Preseason aspirations equated to the thrilling anticipation of the ride. Flights of fancy placed you in the realms of the supernatural, where the appearance of Lucifer himself, could send you into a paroxysms of hysteria and like Faust, a Melbourne supporter would sell their wretched soul to gain a piece of silverware. As the ride starts you grip the seat and feel a sense of excitement and also foreboding. The doors open and your senses soar. You are plunged into darkness so early in the ride. But wait. Did you see a flash or light at the end of the tunnel? Yes there is a light. Oh no, you change direction. Hey! Did someone touch you up? Horror overcomes you as you experience the familiar sensation of cobwebs and skeletons rattling chains, haunting empty black spaces. You burst through into the real world, the door shuts and your ride is over. Anticlimactic, as you always knew it would be.
Like the menace dwelling within the Ghost Train ride, the Demons were allegedly bedevilled by an unsettling thing – a curse. It involved the most successful Melbourne coach ever.
As though admonishing a lairising protégé, the bronze figure on a plinth outside the Melbourne Cricket Ground looks in a hurry to exact revenge. The statue is of the great Melbourne coach Norm Smith. Immaculately attired in a suit and tie, his crooked index finger belies a straight talking, triumphant, bluey with a touch of football genius.
I guess it’s unfair to lay the dearth of Melbourne Premierships for the last 57 years at his kick-arse Oxfords. He coached the Demons to six Premierships, the last in 1964 and played in four Premiership sides, kicking seven goals in one. Unbelievably he was sensationally dumped by the Melbourne board during the season of 1965 via a courier to his home, which was probably the equivalent of the notorious ‘Dear John’ text message. His apparent acid tongue was kryptonite for Smith among the board, after the disclosure that Ron Barassi, the celebrated Melbourne Premiership captain who was boarding with Smith, was about to skedaddle to Princes Park, home of the Carlton Football Club for some extra moolah with Smith’s blessing. Smith was reinstated after some boardroom intrigue involving a County Court judge, but stated, “It will be many, many years before Melbourne will play in the finals again let alone become a force. And it will be a long, long time before Melbourne wins another Premiership.” And that’s where it started – the Melbourne curse.
In contrast to Smith’s prediction, a mere twelve years after their last finals appearance, Melbourne was on a course to seemingly waltz into the finals and have a crack at the ‘Holy Grail.’ In the last game of the season and needing to account for the bottom dwellers Collingwood, which they did, the Dees were reasonably expecting, and depending on Footscray to succumb to the top team Carlton. But the curse reared its ugly head when Footscray scrounged a surprising draw, squeezing Melbourne out of the finals and cockily taking their place. Was Norm Smith standing in the celestial grandstand uttering, “I told ya”?
In 1987, flirting with danger, the Dees hatched a plot to propel the darling of the Members’ wing, the pirouetting and loyal, retiring captain Robbie Flower into the finals. With another nail-biting sub-plot involving Melbourne beating Footscray at the Western Oval and the unlikely outcome of Hawthorn beating Geelong at the Cattery in the last game of the season, the Dees were launched into the first final since 1964. Under the stewardship of former Tiger John ‘Swooper’ Northey, the eager band of blue and red brothers swept all before them. North Melbourne’s season was pronounced dead early in the elimination final as Melbourne cruised to a 158 point win, the largest margin in an elimination final. They scorched the Sydney Swans by 149 points in the semi-final. And all of a sudden there was a buzz in the city of Melbourne, The press fell over themselves to know where these interloping ragamuffins had come from. They surprisingly found themselves in the preliminary final with a shot at making the ‘Granny.’ And then the Melbourne curse struck.
Facing Hawthorn in the preliminary final the fledgling Melbourne boys must have felt the trickle of hot wax as they soared too close to the sun on the unseasonably warm September day. Melbourne held a 22 point lead at the start of the last quarter. By the final siren Melbourne led by 4 points after a parade of players shanked, slew and slaughtered shots at goal in a belated fit of stage fright. But that wasn’t the end. A Hawthorn player by the name of Gary Buckenara had been awarded a free kick on the fifty metre mark just before the siren. Could he kick it? Questionable. It was then that the hapless Jim Stynes, schooled in the foreign Gaelic football code ran across the mark of the said Buck. The penalty awarded to the Hawthorn player was 15 metres, but it could have been the first circle of hell for all the Demon supporters cared. Could he kick a goal from thirty five metres out? Yes. And he did. And the Demon fans cried for another year.
1988 came and Melbourne proved that they weren’t a flash in the pan side. They made the coveted ‘Granny’ to face dastardly Hawks. The cursed twist came when Steven ‘Strawbs’ O’Dwyer, part of the successful ruck duo was suspended for whacking a Carlton player, (well who wouldn’t?)
Twenty four years on from the last Premiership, the Dees fans whooped and hollered as their side ran out onto the Melbourne Football Ground in front of a crowd of 93,754. Their appearance in the final proved a crash scene as their chance of adding to the trophy cabinet took a dismal turn. The Dees were pummelled by 96 points.
Jimmy Stynes, not only redeemed himself from the horror of ‘87, but was catapulted into legend status when he won the 1991 Brownlow and every prize from the Players Most Valuable Player Award to the Bentleigh RSL chook raffle. It was the highlight of that period when the Dees teasingly hovered in the finals until tumbling to11th in1992 and into football wilderness.
Under the guidance of ‘The Reverend,’ the beloved Neale Daniher, the Demons dared to transcend the firmament and ascend into football heaven once again. When the Dees burst through the banner and onto the MCG for the Grand Final of 2000, the Melbourne supporters hoped, prayed and crossed everything from fingers, to legs, to eyes. But the 96,249 crowd were aware that the rampaging foe, the Essendon Bombers, was probably one of the most lethal football combinations for an age. They had won a record breaking 21 consecutive games with an average winning margin of 51 points, also a record.
A chance sighting of Shane Woewodin, Melbourne’s star midfielder at a Melbourne pool gave our family reason to believe it was a good omen. It was, for Shane that is; he went on to win the Brownlow Medal that Monday night. And that was pretty much where the excitement ended. After the medal presentation, Neale Daniher celebrated and ribbed his erstwhile coach and the present coach of the Dons, Kevin Sheedy The mirthless Sheedy short of a retort, bided his time until following Saturday when he had the last laugh as Essendon delivered a punishing 65 point win that was no joke for Melbourne supporters. Even an all in brawl after Melbourne player Troy Simmonds was felled by Michael Long couldn’t reignite a Rocky-like fightback. Curse them.
Melbourne supporters suffered vertigo from the rapid acceleration and deceleration up and down the premiership ladder in the following few years. And then we plunged into ennui as Melbourne descended into a period of football doldrums. We searched for other winter pastimes like finger knitting, yodelling and practising simpering smiles in response to being a source of amusement when mocked about our nonexistent Range Rovers escaping to patchy ski fields and five star chalets mid-season…or before.
There was a glimmer of hope in 2017 after Melbourne had slowly climbed from paltriness to mediocrity under Simon Goodwin. Again we had thrillingly scraped into the eight on the Saturday of last round of the season. As we reached for the Xanax and prayed to our deity of choice, our tenuous position relied on the result of a game in the far flung reaches of the continent the next day. The odds were in our favour as the team who could usurp our position had to play the League leaders. All looked set for a Melbourne finals appearance. But, with 10 minutes to go, as if dancing to diabolic discord the West Coast Eagles seized the win from the Adelaide Crows in a cursed pile on of the Dees. They edged us out by a pathetic half of a percentage point. I mean, it wasn’t even a whole number.
2018 saw the Dees have some success. We had made the eight after another twelve years and feeling a wee bit smug as we met the West Coast Eagles. We had beaten them five weeks previous – no mean feat given the Eagles almost criminal home ground advantage. On a sunny Saturday arvo, we displayed a reckless bonhomie as we took block on the couch in front of a substantial cheese platter to watch the preliminary final. We took selfies, striking poses with mouthfuls of brie and No Name water crackers. I missed part of the first quarter due to a nervous trip to the rest room. I should have stayed there. The game was a debacle, a disaster, a destruction, a demolition and I can’t think of any more ‘d’ words. Clayton Oliver finally opened our account after the long break – a very long break if you count the first half.
The less said about the 2019 season, the better. So I won’t.
2020 was stupid. COVID-19 threw a veritable Sidchrome into the works, and the curse was alive and well. Games were suspended, teams were put into hubs or pubs, I never really found that out. The length of games was shortened so that Mickey Mouse could have roved all day without needing the interchange bench to rest his skinny legs. Melbourne was hounded out of Victoria and Sydney became its home. (Sydney? Did you ever?) The dreaded disease then sent the Dees out of Sydney and to Maroochydore (Get me Google maps!) They ended up in tropical Cairns – duped into thinking they were on vacation, where wearing zinc cream and quaffing Great Northern at 5pm is de rigeur – and forgot how to play football, losing to nobodies thus dashing finals hopes again. It would take a shameless team to claim a Premiership in this year of chaotic, COVID-19 crackpottery, and Richmond was that team.
Demon fans suffered from PTFD – post traumatic fade-out disorder in this period. It’s difficult to recall the facts, (my therapist told me not to.) Melbourne had the yips. As the old saying goes, they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in what became a compulsive disorder.
2021 heralded a new era for the Dees. Suddenly Melbourne left the fade-outs to White King and rejoiced in a new game plan called – winning. Unfamiliar with the new formula, Dees fans became wary of their new surroundings. Like bewildered funsters, discombobulated in one of those rickety, centrifuge rides, we were climbing the walls unable to process these new emotions. Did we trust Simon Goodwin to part the football seas to find the promised Premiership land, or were we to wander aimlessly in the football desert for generations?
There was a strange feeling of slight detachment, disbelief and Dali-esque time warp when the Demons rans onto the oval in the distant land of Western Australia for the Grand Final of 2021 against the Western Bulldogs, fifty seven years, six days and five hours after their last entrance to a successful Grand Final. The laws for the containment of coronavirus, dictated that no Victorian Melbourne fans could legally set foot outside of Victoria, let alone place a pinky toe over the Western Australian border.
We sat in front of the telly sans cheese platter; associated with losses we had chucked the Cheddar, ditched the Danish Blue and scrapped the Stilton. Club coloured scarves and beanies were banned. Any skerrick of conceit, over-celebration or pre-emptive yahoos were not tolerated. Having become football nihilists we had been conditioned to keep our emotions in check, to the point of severe melancholia. And with suitably dire expectations and a stark awareness of the curse, we watched the game.
First blood went to us by virtue of a sublime snap by Petracca on the 50 metre mark. Excellent. But that was just a beginning; there were three thousand nine hundred and five excruciating seconds to withstand. At quarter time we were ahead by 21 points; a frighteningly small margin.
The second quarter gave rise to the familiar dread and resignation. Cracking through like a coronavirus cough, the curse intervened to deny Max Gawn an actual goal by way of a goggle-eyed call. Even the Bulldog barracking commentator, Tony Leonard attested to it being a six-pointer. Frittering away our lead, the Bulldogs struck fear and loathing into us as they piled on goals with their captain Bontempelli snatching a mark on a slight angle and slotting it with 31 seconds to spare taking them to an 8 point lead at half time.
It was horrible. I left the confines of my living room to wander the dark and deserted roads to question and resent the meaning of football life. These desolate, lockdown streets reflected the sense of impending doom. Contemplating breaching curfew, I surmised that if I got caught, a night in the cells would be a better option than watching another cursed Demon demise. However I returned home, womaned up and planted myself on the sofa like a boss. At about the eleven minute mark when bloody Bontempelli sent another one through the sticks, my PTFD peaked, I am ashamed to say I fled to find refuge in my bedroom, but not before having a passionate row with my beloved daughter about who would suffer the most if Melbourne lost.
Having lost control of my senses I found an old Sudoku and set about finding a set of numbers that I liked, whilst peeking at the occasional live score and protecting my ears against muffled roars from the outside world.
When I re-emerged from my cave of despair, Melbourne had played the most scintillating, inspired minute of sport since Russell Crowe, despite being mortally wounded, dispatched Commodus in front of a full house at the Coliseum. The Dees had kicked the last seven goals and led by 24 points, including a raid of three goals in under a minute, right before the bell. Yes. due to my severe PTFD I missed it. I nervously teetered on the edge of the sofa, ready to take flight should the Bulldogs condemn Melbourne to football ignominy and the rest of us to the madhouse. Just before Bayley Fritsch took Melbourne to a 6 goal lead early in the last quarter, Triple M commentator Lachy Reid was asked to “call it.” Being a Melbourne supporter for “far too long,” he declined as he lamented, “Anything happens in their games.” I understood completely.
However, delirious with goal fever, Melbourne launched an explosive burst of scoring shots in the last quarter. They emptied their showbag of football treats including a goal from half back Christian Salem, a six goal haul from Bayley Fritsch, Christian Petracca razing the turf with a Grand Final record of forty possessions and Tom McDonald helping the Dees to the highest winning margin by a Melbourne Premiership side with a goal after the siren.
With four minutes on the clock, the cameras were trained on the aptly named Simon Goodwin as he embraced a jubilant assistant. I thought it was premature. There were minutes to go; anything could happen. And it did.
The Demons prevailed by 74 points. The Melbourne theme song played. I checked my pulse. I was still alive. The Melbourne Football Club had won their first Premieirship for 57 years. It was my first ever. Jack and I embraced. He was crying.
It is said by some, namely my nephew Andrew, that when blood was spilt on the Perth football ground by the hirsute, haemoglobin depleted Max Gawn that the curse was broken. After a reckless sling of the gangling Gawn into the boundary turf by Caleb Daniel in the third quarter, the Demon captain rose from the tackle phoenix-like and with renewed intensity and a claret smudge above his right eye that gave him an aura of, shall we say, the demonic. That incident was a precursor to a storm of goals.
In the end my nephew was right. The curse was broken and Norm Smith’s prophecy was vindicated, culminating in Christian Petracca receiving his eponymous award . Fifty seven years is a long, long time.
Jack was right also. While not admitting to curses Jack was pragmatic, concluding, “every Gawn-dog has his day.”
To those gone too soon, we remember you:
Robbie Flower
Troy Broadbridge
Dean Bailey
Sean Wight
Jimmy Stynes
Colin Sylvia
And those whose spirit ignited the fire, we salute you:
Neal Daniher
Nathan Jones